Lightheaded, I look up into Dad’s eyes, full of fire and brimstone, and I just know he’s about to do worse than me. I can tell by the way he looks at the bag.
Wordlessly, I snap off the gloves and hand them over to him, then get set behind the bag for him to have his turn.
He roars after the first combination, and that, ridiculously, is what finally makes all the desperation and helplessness surface. My eyes sting with tears I never want to release. I don’t want them to exist, I don’twant them.
I sniffle as quietly as I can when Dad roars again, and I keep the bag as steady as possible so he can let the rage out. I give him the same grace he gave me, the same space.
And maybe his rage for me feels like a healing balm. Maybe I’m tired enough to let him fight for me.
At least for today.
“You didn’t tellme they were saying homophobic bullshit to you.” Patrick’s voice echoes inside the gym. He knows Dad’s listening, and probably has a good idea of just how much danger every one of my teammates is in right now, but you’d never know by how calm he sounds.
“They say lots of homophobic bullshit,” I admit. “But it’s not like they’re passionate homophobes, they only use it as ammunition against me. They don’t know I’m fucking gay because they’ve never bothered to ask.”
“That’s still unacceptable, Lex,” Patrick says.
“Bojarski is the worst. He’s the one who never lets up, everyone else just...”
“Everyone else is a coward.” Dad’s Polish accent pops out like it very rarely does, before he clears his throat and composes himself at least a little. “Butheis bitter, he’s a loser, he’s a pea-brained little bitch boy who can’t stand not being the best. And he’s a shitty goalie on top of that. The only reason he’s still playing is because you’re the best two-way forward in the league.” Dad starts up his rant again. “You do the work of one and a half defensemen out there. Your line is an embarrassment, and you will never play. Another. Game. For them.”
I stare up at Dad in wonder, and can’t stop my eyes from widening because I want that to be true. I want that so much my throat burns with the desperation.
“He’s right. Them not passionate homophobes—whatever the fuck that means—is not an excuse for the slurs or the serious harassment you’ve told me has been happening.” Patrick piping up again gives me at least some time to close my mouth. “But I’m afraid it’s not as easy as never playing for them again.”
I knew it was coming, and still it stings.
“The game’s in two hours. I guess I can drive back home and?—”
“No,” Dad growls, his voice feral and final.
“No,” Patrick agrees at the same time, through the phone, and his voice is still calm but also final. “I’m drafting an email to management right now saying you hurt your wrist defending yourself from hateful speech and harassment from your teammates. If they dare say anything different to the press, then we go public, andthenyou never play for them again. Butfor now we have to make sure you don’t come out looking like the bad guy.
“We need other teams to want you, which of course, they do. Right now they do. Every single team I’ve talked to wants you badly, but a scandal is the last thing we need. If they force our hand, then we go to war. The best case scenario right now is for you to stay with Ruko for a couple of days. You don’t have practice tomorrow, right?”
“That’s right.” My voice is barely audible, so I clear my throat, before going to my calendar and rattling off the schedule. “Tomorrow is rest day, then we have full practice on the fifteenth, we fly to Tampa on the sixteenth and play the seventeenth, eighteenth is rest day in Tampa, nineteenth we go to Carolina, then play them on the twentieth, rest the twenty-first then play DC on the twenty-second. Then it’s Christmas break until I fly back here on the twenty-sixth.”
“Good. I hope we have more concrete news about where you’ll be going by then, since I’m going to officially waive your trade clause once the team isn’t in town, but for now you’re going to stay at your Dad’s, you’re going to go to practice on Monday, you’re going to fly with the team and play those three games.”
“How the fuck is he supposed to do that?” Dad demands, and I can’t even cringe at him killing the messenger before he’s going off. “These motherfuckers are only going to make his life harder after they hear about the trade.”
“I’ll tell management that if they tell the coaching staff or any team members about it, then we’re taking everything to the press and demanding an investigation by the Commissioner’s office.”
Dad keeps frowning for three seconds before he nods at the phone.
“That’s good.”
“I know, it’s my job. Look, at the end of the day the only power we have is in the list of teams, Lex. So I’m going to ask you to think about it one last time, so we’re sure you don’t want to cut off any other teams.”
“I’m sure,” I tell him, tired of thinking about it already. “Almost anywhere is better than the Empire. You know where I want to go, but I can’t just give them one possible team because otherwise they’ll never trade me, and I still have two years on my contract.”
“It sucks, I know, but I’ll do everything I can to get you everything you want.”
“Thank you, Patrick,” Dad says when I don’t speak for a long moment. It’s not that I’m not grateful, or that I’m not really desperate for this conversation to be over—I am. It’s the fact that everything is too much.
Dad knows. He knows and he?—
A sob escapes out of my throat.
